This short story is based off of 3 articles that I read about the current rebellion against the degrading of the culture of theatre in Russia. There has been an uprising in the world of theatre that demands that only theatre of quality be produced and anything less be booted immediately. Whether it's a stereotype or not, Russians take great pride in their work, and that's not excluding theatre. This short story is based off articles covering this movement in Russia. From the Opera House in Komomolka to the Stanislavsky Theatre in Moscow, more and more artists are taking control of the quality of their work.
At the Stanislavsky Theatre in Moscow, actors are working to petition the removal of the current artistic director Alexander Galibin. If he were to live in the world of the story, he would be one of the “revolutionaries” that brought the world to it’s current state of artless life. He has been accused of producing a string of flops, getting terrible reviews from both critics and audiences, and creating a lack of disorganization in the financial sector of the theatre. The actors have also complained of bad treatment – longer hours and less salary. What have the actors done to stop this nonsense? They’ve published an open letter of 57 signatures in the Literary Gazette.
In an Opera House in the district of Chelyabinsk, the question is how government grant money is distributed among all employees, who is getting more and who is getting less. The question of what the money is being spent on has been brought to light as well. As complications among those involved have arisen, the audiences become displeased with the work they see on stage. Those who work in the theatre and with the productions have voiced concern. The viewers have decided to spend their hard earned rubles on a show, only to walk out during intermission.
The content of what currently is being produced has also been questioned and even criticized. More and more shows are being produced that are geared toward
This short story reflects the minor revolution that’s currently taking place in theatre and is also based off a short poem by Thomas Hardy, At the Railway Station, Upways. The story takes place in a world where good theatre is punished and considered a crime against society. This is the story of one man who defies society and creates a masterpiece, only to find himself being carted off to prison.
At the Railway Station, Upwaysby Thomas Hardy
There is not much that I can do,
For I've no money that's quite my own!'
Spoke up the pitying child--
A little boy with a violin
At the station before the train came in,--
'But I can play my fiddle to you,
And a nice one 'tis, and good in tone!'
The man in the handcuffs smiled;
The constable looked, and he smiled too,
As the fiddle began to twang;
And the man in the handcuffs suddenly sang
With grimful glee:
'This life so free
Is the thing for me!'
And the constable smiled, and said no word,
As if unconscious of what he heard;
And so they went on till the train came in--
The convict, and boy with the violin.
It's a rainy day on the streets of Moscow, there are people shuffling along with their heads bent down, eyes cast to the ground. The streets lost the glow they had some years back, when everything was alive and the lights danced, when there was a sparkle in someone's eyes. Times are different now, that's certain. No longer is there such a thing as art in the world, let alone theatre. No, all of that is gone. No one knows what happened, it happened so unsuspectingly and before the people knew it, they became robots, leaving people only eating, sleeping, and working. The people lost the light in their eyes. They walked in the streets vacant and hollow, shuffling from their homes to work and back again.
Art is banned in this world. Any form of expression is considered heresy, at least by those in power. If you whistle a tune, you'll get a hefty fine. If you're caught doodling, you could get probation. If you were to produce a show of good quality…well, the consequences are unfathomable.
There are some living people left in the world. They're a rare breed, but they're there. You won't find them taking action against the inaction, but you'll find them holed up in their shanty little apartments observing the world around them with a bitter heart. There are some who broke the silence and staged their own uprising in subtle forms. They weren't successful. Their names were only erased from the books and their bodies placed in the earth.
However there was one man who managed to shine, if only for a little bit. And he escaped. Who knows where he is now, or what he's doing, but he made a spark in the dilapidated minds of the people. We'll call this man Convict.
Convict is an honest man – hard working, zealous, and full of life (when he's not being watched). Ever since he was a little boy he had a smile as bright as the sun and a glint in his eye that his parents always tried to snuff out, lest he get in trouble for it. No matter how many times they tried to snuff his fire out, it only managed to get brighter and brighter. They had to send him away for fear of his life.
He was very educated, even though he lived with his grandmother for over a decade in a peaceful little village in the vast east of Russia, miles away from any metropolitan city or academic setting of good standing. His grandmother made sure to cultivate his mind with only the best of the black market tutors. He was tutored in a variety of subjects – from Anthropology to Physics, to playing the piano and even studying with an acting coach.
His grandmother, being a cultured convict herself, grew up as one of the underground revolutionaries, creating a steady stream of underground art in the form of poetry readings and small staged skits all across Russia. After her husband lost his life to the cause of art, she decided to retire her life of vigilante art. But that’s another story for later.
Convict became a bright young man and, at the tender age of 19, he came to the bitter realization that he had to disguise himself if he ever wanted to leave the countryside, where he was exiled when he was a little boy. So the young boy grew up into the man known as Convict and moved to the largest metropolitan city on earth. Convict learned a lot, about himself, about those around him, about the world. He joined the underground art movement and followed the footsteps of his grandmother – until he met his wife. After swearing to never again follow that vigilante lifestyle, he settled into life as an accountant for the local bank branch. He raised three beautiful daughters and continued his life of comfort and repetition.
Several years passed and the Convict was a middle aged man. The young man with the burning passion and unyielding ideas was buried beneath the aging man. He was bored to death with his job and with the ongoing graying of the world, but he enjoyed his domestic comforts and adored his family. Occasionally the thought of what could’ve happened if he hadn’t married crossed his mind, but he learned to quell it throughout the years.
On a gray foggy morning, unlike any other, Convict woke up, put on the same gray suit and red tie he wore to work, and ate the same breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast his wife prepared for him. This morning would be different though. Ding dong. The doorbell rang and the husband and wife looked at each other, puzzled. “Did you order milk for Tuesday, dearest?” asked Convict.
“No, the milk man delivered the milk yesterday. How odd. I’ll go see who is calling.” The Wife made her way to the front door and looked through the peephole, only to be surprised by what she saw. ‘Why would the Art Inspection be here?’ she thought to herself. ‘I got rid of the girls’ secret stash of records just last week.’
“Can I help you Officers?” asked Wife as she opened the door and smiled her most charming smile.
“Good morning, Madam. Is Mr. Convict home? We are here to arrest Mr. Convict on the charge that he was involved with the Underground Art Movement to a dangerous degree.” Wife just looked on in astonishment. Her whole life she’s tried to live inside the lines that society placed on her. Don’t stray from the path that was built for you. Art is reason enough for condemnation. Raise your family, do your work, and don’t get into trouble. The thought crossed her mind fleetingly back when Convict had asked her for her hand in marriage. He swore that he would stop this ridiculous art nonsense. He swore.
The police pushed past the dazed Wife and made their way to the kitchen where they arrested Convict on the charge of being too involved with the arts. Word on the street was that he was indicted for producing a masterpiece of a play that encouraged people to actually live their lives. He wrote and performed these spectacular shows that gave goose pimples to whoever was fortunate enough to sit and watch. Everything he did was against the system of belief that was put in place.
Needless to say, Convict was ushered out of his home and thrown into the police car. Instead of dragging on this tale, I will make it short, so you may go about enjoying life just as our hero would have.
So the Convict stood in front of the Judge of Mental and Spiritual Well-being. He was accused of wrongly influencing innocent people with his works and was sentenced to a number of years in prison. Before he was carted off to prison, he said his goodbyes to his beloved family; whispering in their ears to not despair and to not let anything quench their light.
On his way to prison, Convict had an escort: Constable. Constable was a young man who had just earned the title of Constable. He was entrusted with the responsibility of transporting the convicted to the prison. It was his first assignment.
It can be said that the young mind is easily persuaded and Constable was no exception to that. He must be given credit, however, for his cold demeanor and hard resistance to Convict.
The journey to the prison was a long train ride through the gray countryside. Sitting on the bench at the train station, waiting for Train 9 to come up the rails, Convict began to observe his young trustee. He noted the hard jaw and the steel gray eyes.
“Do you have any family, young man?” asked the Convict. It would be the beginning of the demise of the Constable’s career – or the beginning of his life. The Constable remained like a stone, only revealing a trace of emotion when a poor little boy played a sad sweet tune to the two men sitting on the bench. One man was overcome with affection and grief for the life he was to leave behind, while the other man slowly was opening up his eyes to the life within him and surrounding him. The only trace of that was through a tiny playful smile.
“I breathed life into people, only because it gave life to me. I only produced the finest work, only to feel the audience digesting the life I had to offer. And what do they do? They send me away, saying I’m a threat to the masses. Oh, young man, live your life to the fullest extent. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise,” were the words said to Constable as they boarded the train.
No emotion registered on Constable’s face, but it did affect the deepest corners of his soul. It wasn’t but 10 minutes later, before the train was to leave the station that Constable turned to the Convict and whispered fiercely, “I am going to free you from these handcuffs old man. You are to pretend that you’re still cuffed and make your way to the bathroom. Escape when you get the chance! You’ve taught me all I’ve ever needed to know. Now, go!”
Convict just stared at him in disbelief. “May you live a life full of happiness and freedom. Live your life,” responded the old man after a second or two. Constable unlocked his cuffs and gave him a quick flash of a smile.
“Now go.” Convict got up and slowly made his way to the bathroom. Before he left the cart, he took one look back. Staring back at him with eager and bright eyes was the Convict, urging him to leave.
“Thank you,” mouthed Convict. That was the last that these two characters ever saw each other. But I can tell you now that they never forgot each other. Forever were their faces engraved in each other’s mind.
Even though there may be times when we feel as if we live in a world destitute of what is good, be it theatre or laughter, there will always be those who will stand up and fight for what good is left. Those in Russia, protesting in their nonviolent ways against the financial discriminations or the lack of quality in theatre can be thought of as the archetypes in this story. I’m hoping their voices will be heard.
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